She’s gone and she left you a scent hound bitch
and a book of fairy tales with a faded cover; you
can’t make out if it there are two ms in grim.

The dog’s too old for the scent and tracking
business, led you to the dark corner of the
backyard shed, but you just found a pile of dirt as
fine as ash.

You can take all that dirt stomped inside your
shoe, pour it onto her unmade side of the bed, but
that won’t make her come back.

You can take all that dust add flour and yeast,
bake it in a cake but that won’t put her inside of

There aren’t enough breadcrumbs in the
world to bring her back.

About the Author:
Connie A. Lopez-Hood served as a Poetry Editor for the Pacific Review and Ghost Town literary journal. She edited and contributed to the chapbook anthology 'Blankets & Other Poems: Poetry for the People of Japan', in which all proceeds have been donated to Japan Relief. Her work appeared or is forthcoming in Gaga Stigmata, Our Stories Literary Journal, Polari Journal, Lingerpost, The Newer York, The Half Penny Marvel, Symmetry Pebbles, and others. She is collaborating on a chapbook entitled 'Operation: Lifted Flowers' and lives in the Southern California mountains.